


Time and Distance

by IdleLeaves



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time and distance seemed to have worked in their favour, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Distance

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/107316.html?thread=23523892#t23523892) at LJ's Comment Fic comm.

It rains more often here, or so he's been told. McCoy hadn't spent enough time on Vulcan to know from experience; here, though, the clouds roll in every few days and it positively pours for an hour or so. It doesn't cool the air much, and the ground dries quickly when the wind picks up at night, but at least it's something.

Doesn't rain enough for grass, of course, not so far from the poles, but there's greenery anyhow, all along the balcony wall, and even inside the house. It takes McCoy by surprise; he'd never figured Spock for a gardener, and he says so.

"My mother both enjoyed and excelled at it," is Spock's explanation, as he sits down across from McCoy with a teacup in each hand. "She shared some of her knowledge with me, however, I had neither the space nor the inclination to pursue the interest aboard ship."

McCoy accepts a cup when it's offered to him, and gives it an experimental sniff. "Spearmint," he says, surprised again, though he really shouldn't be; it hasn't been enough years yet for Spock to have forgotten certain things. McCoy has to wonder, though, if there's even such a thing as enough years, for either of them.

The silence that stretches between them is just this side of comfortable. Beyond the balcony, the rain continues to pour, and McCoy squints into the distance, as far across the colony as he can manage to see. It's come a long way in the three decades since it was established, and continues to thrive; it won't be all that much longer before the first children born on this new planet will be thinking about children of their own. McCoy voices that last thought, and it's enough to get them started talking, of culture, custom, and the difficulty of reconciling a desire to preserve the past versus a desire to move forward and rebuild.

It starts out specific--this planet, these people, their culture--but soon lapses into generalities, which of course means they're not really talking about the colony anymore. "I knew," McCoy says, eventually. "I knew before you knew."

Spock's brow furrows; he doesn't break eye contact, but he doesn't speak for a long moment. "Then why?" is the question, when it comes.

McCoy shrugs. "Sometimes," he says, "against all, well, logic... a man likes to hope." Basic human instinct had prevailed, that time, when the offer came again as it had so many years before; even when Spock was still considering the facts and weighing his options, McCoy had already figured out what his decision would likely be.

"My res--" Spock starts, but McCoy cuts him off before he can even really get going.

"I remember the explanation well enough," McCoy says, without malice. "I don't need to hear it again." The corners of his lips curve into a smile for a moment. "I'm sorry, you know," he says, looking down at the teacup he's still holding.

"For?" Spock inclines his head, waiting.

"Not coming out here before now."

"You had other responsibilities and commitments."

"And excuses. I had those, too." He smiles, again, but this time it's more of a self-deprecating smirk than anything else. Spock had never asked first, of course; he hadn't ever needed to. McCoy had always managed--during the communications that were frequent, at first, then less so as time went on--to come around to the subject all on his own, any time the ship had been in the area and more than a few times it hadn't. Even so, when it came right down to it, to the month before or even the week before any of their tentative plans, there always seemed to be an obstacle, some commitment or problem that kept him away.

He wonders, now, with silence washing over them again, how many of those obstacles he'd placed in his own way without even realising it at the time.

Instead of dwelling on that, he switches gears. "So this'll come as no surprise, and I'm sure he's told you himself at least a dozen times in the past month, but Jim wants you to know there's still a place for you in the 'Fleet, if you ever want it."

"I have been considering it," Spock answers.

It's definitely not the response McCoy was expecting, and he raises both eyebrows. "Really, now," he says. There's no sarcasm--only curiosity--in his voice.

"I did not resign my commission, Leonard, I--"

"-- Took a leave of absence. I know. It was only ever intended to be temporary. I know that, too." But temporary means different things to different people, and the six months that had been spoken of, in the beginning, had quickly turned to a year, and that year had somehow turned into three, then five; in retrospect, it should have been a clean break from the get-go. It hadn't been, but time and distance seemed to have worked in their favour, eventually dissolving any lingering resentment on McCoy's part.

"I do not intend to make a decision for some time yet," Spock says, setting aside his empty teacup.

"Might not be so bad, having you around again," McCoy decides, then, drawing himself back to the present. "Even just like this--as a friend. Or a constant pain in my ass. Whichever." He looks beyond the balcony wall and across the colony a second time; the rain is tapering off, the sky beginning to lighten. "You know," he says, "I might even have to look forward to it, if and when the time comes."

Spock's face is impassive as ever, but his eyes are a different story. It's not much, really, just a glint of something McCoy has come to recognise, something that's as close to a smile as he'll ever get. "As will I."


End file.
